Since our politics have become depressingly reasonable, Canadians looking for a fight are forced to pick sides on the issue of Don Cherry.

Cherry, who was always the first guy wading in, seems less and less inclined to punch back.

Over the weekend, he declined an honorary degree from Kingston’s Royal Military College after one faculty member wrote an angry letter and sent it to the local paper.

The guy handling my pension details will be heartened to hear about the renewed power of newsprint to sway this country’s leading citizens.

Don Cherry circa 2005 would’ve swaggered into the joint precisely to thumb his nose at his critic(s). Today’s Don Cherry called the whole mess off, saying he wanted to avoid a “circus” at the commencement.

He’s 77 now and while he still sets the agenda for our national hockey conversation, he is more of a cult figure than a trailblazer. After three decades spent listening to a remarkably consistent message, a great many people have decided that Cherry’s defence of violence isn’t just wrong-headed, but that it’s morally corrupt.

Cherry replies by adding more square-footage to his bunker. He is besieged, and for the very first time, it seems possible that he could be broken.

The not-so-secret secret to Cherry’s success as a broadcaster is his commitment to an ideal. Cherry believes in a perfect sort of hockey and, more importantly, a perfect sort of player. That player is a humble thug, a skilled brute. He does not complain or retreat. He is always the aggressor. Cherry’s perfect player is the perfected version of himself.

Other analysts and experts are professional prevaricators. They can see both sides of any issue. Cherry sees hockey two-dimensionally. That’s what makes him compelling.

He’s also intellectually honest. As much as he sets out to provoke, no one who watches him can doubt that Cherry believes completely in everything he says when he’s saying it. There is always something calculating about a provocateur. Cherry isn’t one of those. He’s a zealot.

For your part, you either do or do not like Cherry — there isn’t enough middle ground to plant a flagpole in.

It’s possible to find his act cartoonish while at the same time admiring the spirit that animates it.

But most people see the man in binary terms — love or hate. The latter group — using the always shrill voice of reason — has grown emboldened in recent months. You once ripped Cherry at your peril. Now, he’s the face on the media dartboard.

How did happen?

Sidney Crosby got sidelined, maybe forever. Other players came forward with harrowing stories about the effects of brain injury. Vancouver ripped itself apart on YouTube after losing a game. Three young men died in as many months, suggesting that hockey has a serious problem with drug addiction and mental illness.

The conversation around the game changed. It entered a mournful period, a time when it’s best to keep quiet and stare at your shoes.

Cherry can’t do that. First, because he isn’t temperamentally suited to silence. And second, because all those changes threatened his own vision of a swashbuckling National Hockey League ruled by real men with their fists.

So Cherry attacked. He was the one guy shouting at the funeral.

And since nothing has changed in hockey or ever will and, therefore, someone needs to be blamed for all its problems, one section of the mob turned on its former hero.

Now Cherry’s cheerful xenophobia and loony political outbursts are no longer eccentric or laughable. They’re anti-Canadian. That’s what Catherine Lord, the Kingston letter writer, suggested. She cleverly aimed at the spot that will hurt Cherry most.

Cherry seems daily diminished by the steady shift in what you are now allowed to say about hockey. He’s too popular to leave on anything but his own terms.

But if Cherry can’t find the will to stand up in front of one of his favourite crowds — the troops — how much fun can the rest of his job be right now?

Whatever you think of him, there’s something sad about seeing him chased off by a gang of one. By our own low-key standards, he was a giant.

Watching his slow fall is like watching a lion brought to ground by a pack of dogs.

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